Beyond A Doubt
by Lindsey Grissom
Summary: Sequel to Beyond The Sea. The early days of married life for our reunited sweethearts. Story told as a series of connected 'first time' drabbles.
1. those sweet words

**A/N: **Okay, so I am now officially posting the sequel to _Beyond The Sea_. This one is a little different in three ways; one: the series of drabbles will tell of their first few hours/days as Mr and Mrs Carson so the timescale to this one is drastically shorter than the last. Two: the theme this time is 'firsts' so in each drabble there will be some kind of first (mind out of the gutter people, although yeah we will get there too). And three: this set of drabbles is not complete. I don't usually post incomplete fic anymore, but you are all so encouraging and have suggestions and I love that. So, if you have any suggestions for firsts you'd like to see, I'd love to read them. I know where this story is going, but there is a lot of leeway in the individual drabbles and I definitely welcome any help you wonderful people can give!

But, on to drabble one: _the first 'i love you'_

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><p><strong>_those sweet words_<strong>

She is a vision as she approaches, white dress, white veil, white shoes - white face from nerves and the same anxious need he has, to no longer be separate people, to not be kept apart.

The dress is simple and plain but she could be wearing one of Lady Grantham's finest and she could not look more perfect to him than she does now.

He can just see her smile through the veil, knows there is one bigger, sillier on his own face. Does not care because he is marrying her today, now and he cannot think of things like dignity and propriety when it is taking everything in him not to rush down the aisle and sweep her into his arms.

Soon, soon he can touch her when he wants, can kiss her lips, her skin and not stop when his heart races, his blood rushes and he knows that much more and he won't ever hear the door opening for Mr Barrow, or Mrs Patmore's happy tread.

Can run his fingers through her hair, so tightly pinned now to her head. He doesn't know how long it is loose, does it curl on its own if left to dry, will it spread out like a dark puddle around her head when she lays against their sheets?

Will she leave her pins in each evening so he can pull them out himself, one by one, kiss her neck, behind her ears as they disappear beneath the fall of locks, tangle his fingers in and tip her head back. Kiss her like a man kisses his wife - like lovers.

His cheeks heat and she smirks at him as the veil is lifted from her face, eyebrow raised.

"I love you," he says as they turn to the altar, takes her hand in his.

"Daft man," she says and gives his fingers a quick squeeze.

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><p>Next time:<em> the first 'Mrs Carson'.<em>


	2. by any other name

**A/N:** Oh, guys. Guys! You amazing people you. So anyone following me on tumblr might have read that I'm having trouble keeping this PG. Well, I say _I _am having trouble, it seems to be more an Elsie and Charles problem, they just can't keep their minds off of each other! Ah well. Just please expect a rating increase in the near future. By the way, of the several drabbles I've written so far for this sequel, this is my favourite. Thanks to my "Guest" reviewer, who has already inspired a drabble further on in the timeline. And everyone else, of course!

So, drabble two: _the first (time Charles calls her) 'Mrs Carson_'**  
><strong>

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><p><strong>_by any other name_<strong>

"It isn't right." He blusters, colour high on his cheeks.

They have been married for only minutes, have walked the short distance from the church to the House, hand in hand. She wears a blue coat over her dress that he bought for her in Ripon last week, scarf and gloves that he has given her early for a Christmas that is only days away.

The air is cold enough for snow, little white flurries whirling around them, settling on her hair and cheeks, balancing on the tips of his eyebrows.

He is a handsome sight, his wedding suit no less than perfect, top hat tucked now beneath his arm as he paces and worries, shoes polished a shining black and un-scuffed - _of course_. He did not wish to wear his uniform and she would never have asked him to. He looks dashing in it no doubt, but he does not consider himself a soldier but a Butler and she fell in love with the _man._

Her dear man.

She takes a deep breath, inhales him amongst the crisp December air.

She is still surprised in moments like this that he is _here_. That she does not have to write to him and wait for a reply - that she has been to church today to marry him and not bury an empty coffin.

She shivers, shakes off the dark thought. Reaches out to brush her hand down his arm. Solid, real.

"Charles, can we please just go inside."

She loves him, has promised to obey and worship him for all the days she has remaining, but she will not catch a cold simply because he is blocking her way into the warm house.

"This- it just isn't done!"

"It is a door, Mr Carson. People have been using it to enter the house for centuries. Now please, they are going to wonder where we've got to."

She has images then, a rushed encounter in the drawing room, his body pressing her against the door, her dress sliding up, up as his hand climbs her thigh ever so slowly. That is what they will be thinking, imagining.

They will not believe her if she tells them that Mr Carson refused to let them enter through the front door, no matter that both His Lordship and the Dowager have agreed to it.

- had offered it like a wedding gift, generous and benevolent, did not see that they were gifting them with something that only money and class say they do not deserve -

"It just doesn't seem right, Mrs Hughes."

"Carson." She says, lip bitten sore between her teeth.

"Sorry?"

Her hand slides down his arm, fingers slipping between his own, tugging to make him look at her.

"Mrs Carson. I'm not Mrs Hughes any longer, Charles."

His smile when it comes, shifts the snow from his eyebrows, stretches his face, lights it up from within.

"So you're not." He says, brings her gloved hand to his lips, mumbles; "Forgive this silly old fool, love?"

"Always." She says, then; "Take me inside."

He grins, cheeky, pushes open the doors, drops his hat and clasps her by the waist; "Yes, Mrs Carson" and he swings her over the threshold.

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><p>Silly man.<p>

Next time: _the first dance_


	3. to have and to hold

**A/N: **Thanks everyone following along with this. I'm glad you all appear to be enjoying it! I'm still welcoming any suggestions people might like to see.

But...drabble three: _the first dance._

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><p><strong>_to have and to hold_<strong>

When he was a younger man, he fancied himself a bit if a charmer. Dark eyes, tall build, dimples in his cheeks when he smiled, and he took to smiling a _lot._

He was dignified, honourable, did nothing that he would need to confess to a man of the cloth, but he would strut through the corridors, would wink and smile and know just how many sets of eyes followed him along.

And then he took to the stage, sang and danced and juggled his way across the country and all with a smile, a wink, a strut.

Returning to service after the shine wore off, he hid those parts of himself away. Folded them like linen and stuffed them deep down. He walked tall, kept quiet. If eyes followed him he shook them off with a frown.

The young Ladies were born and in secret, for special occasions or tearful falls, he would dust off some of that board-walking man and put on a bit of a show.

And then Elsie Hughes arrived at Downton.

He watches his wife now as she talks to Anna and Daisy, sips at the cooling tea in his cup.

How much of his life story begins with; _and then there was Elsie Hughes?_

He is a changed man, like a long-owned broom that has seen new handles and brushes, there is very little of the original Charles Carson left in him.

And yet, he feels like smiling until his dimples show, strutting through the village with his wife - _his wife_ - on his arm. When she feels his gaze on her she smiles and he winks at her, lifts his tea cup to hide his smile at the flush that settles on her cheeks.

He feels like a young man again, one with the prettiest girl in town promised to him.

The day will be a long one and he is impatient for its end. They have their rooms, their bed and he cannot wait to take her in his arms.

He wants to watch her undress, but just as much, he wants to watch her re-dress in the morning, see her nimble fingers work the tiny buttons on her uniform, tidy her hair. Watch her pack away the woman and become the Housekeeper. Wants to see the private moments he never has before.

William - her dear William, still not well, but well enough - settles at the piano and strikes up a waltz, pulling him from his thoughts.

He sets his cup down on the table, tugs his wedding jacket straight as he rises.

She meets him as he approaches, her hand already outstretched. He does not have to ask her to dance, only pull her close and lead her around the table.

They have never danced together before, he keeping to the Ladies at the Christmas party, she with His Lordship. He knows already how well she fits into his arms, but it is a delight, an excitement to see how well her body follows his, how easily she straightens and bends as he leads.

He looks into her eyes, takes in the promise beneath the sparkle.

The rest of their lives cannot come soon enough for him.

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><p>Next time: <em>the first promise<em>.


	4. sweet anticipation

**A/N: **Thank you everyone, your words mean the world. I do intend to reply to your reviews, but I've been stupidly busy. I hope this little thing goes some way to making up for my unforgivable neglect.

Drabble Four: _the first promise_

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><p><strong>_sweet anticipation_<strong>

They return to their duties soon after finishing the wedding breakfast Mrs Patmore took such delight in providing.

Spirits are still high, but there is work to be done and the house does not stand still just because she is married now.

For a moment, while she changes the sheets in Lady Edith's room, she thinks what it would be like if she and Charles were not in service.

Would they have gone home now, after the celebrations were done? Taken themselves to their own cottage, or a flat above their shop and enjoyed their first moments as man and wife alone, together. Would they have had to wait for evening to fall before she could touch him in all those ways she has been imagining longer than she cares to admit? Or would they have given in early, in their sitting room first and their bedroom only later.

"Mrs Hu-Carson, are you alright?"

She blinks, surprised and raises a questioning eyebrow at Anna.

"You're looking quite flushed." The girl responds and suddenly she can feel the heat in her cheeks.

"No I'm quite alright, thank you Anna." She shakes her head, bends down to tuck the corner of the sheet beneath the mattress.

"If you're sure."

"Quite sure." She replies, breathes a sigh of relief when the girl leaves the room.

It would be easier indeed if they were not in service, but then there is something to be said for anticipation, she supposes. And she is nervous, feels slightly ridiculous to be so at her age, but then age says nothing of experience and in this she is almost as innocent as young Daisy.

"She's right, my dear. You do look a little flushed."

She jumps at his voice so close to her and leans back into him, his arms coming to wrap around her waist, hands settling flat against her stomach.

She lays her own hand against his, reaches up with the other and slips her fingers through his hair, pulls his face down to her neck.

"I wonder what you've been thinking, Mrs Carson." He says into her skin, presses his lips against her pulse and sucks.

"Charles! You'll leave a mark."

She can feel him grin against her, lets him tug her closer so that he is pressed against her back.

"And if I did?"

"Charles." She says again, a warning and he laughs. Kisses her neck twice more and pulls away.

She turns and he has his hands raised up, backing towards the closed door.

"Okay, my love, I'll leave you to your work." He pauses at the door, fingers wrapped around the handle; "But tonight I will kiss you as I like, Elsie."

"Promise?" She asks, her voice just a breath. He jerks, a smile like a cream-full cat spreading across his face. It makes her blood pulse all the faster, her heart thumping hard in her chest.

"I do." He says, leaves quickly before they can forget where they are.

She rests back against the bed, braces herself against the bedstead.

She is still nervous for tonight but has no doubt that he will guide her carefully. Will give her as much pleasure as she intends for him to receive.

They have been so careful, since his return, so proper. She would love to not have to wait for him any longer.

But she is patient and knows that she will be rewarded for that.

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><p>Next time: <em>the first letter.<em>


	5. what goes unsaid

**A/N:** Oh people! I am *just* keeping two drabbles ahead of my posting but all of your comments and PMs are so inspiring! *snuggles you all close*. This while thing was not supposed to be very long, in fact I was thinking probably a few drabbles shorter than Beyond The Sea, but a certain someone has filled my PM box with _so many amazing prompts I can't even..._basically, deeedeee has pretty much guaranteed that this will be longer than it's prequel, span more time than first thought and include just about every "first" anyone can think of (although I'm still taking requests/suggestions). Which might be a good thing, because we're still only at the afternoon of their wedding day and I think 'the night' is going to be quite a few drabbles all on its own.

So, Drabble Five: _the first letter _(after they're married)

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><p><strong>_what goes unsaid_<strong>

He finds the letter when he returns to his pantry. Unlocks the silver cabinet and there it is, envelope resting against the serving dish.

After two years - more than 10 before that if he considers her letters from the Seasons - her handwriting is as familiar to him as his own.

He cannot help the way that his heart jumps at the sight of his name, the curl of the double "C". He is home now, can talk to her whenever he chooses, sit in his pantry or her parlour and sip wine at the end of each day.

And still she has written to him.

In the moment before opening, he knows why.

- she had conceded to wearing a veil. He had asked, expected a fight, the need to convince her, but she had accepted with a smile and a tiny huff.

He should have known she would have her own request. He gave in at once, spent last night at the village inn, so he would not see her until she walked towards him down the aisle -

The first night he spent away from the Abbey since his return and she wrote to him.

His sentimental girl.

The soft scent of her on the page brings back memories he cannot yet face and so he pushes them away, unfolds the paper and settles himself in his chair.

_'My dear Charles'_ he reads beneath yesterday's date, chest already tight.

She writes _'I love you'_ and _'you make me so happy'_.

Tells him that she cannot wait to see him again the next morning, that she will be unable to sleep, kept awake with joy over what is to come.

She tells him that she will be wearing a new dress and he is not to fuss, that she is as practical as the next person but for her wedding day she will go to this little extra expense.

In writing that looks small and hurried, she tells him that although they will likely never have children of their own now, she does not need them and he isn't to fret. He imagines how she must have blushed writing that, how red her lip would have become; worried between her teeth.

She writes how she looks forward to becoming a family of two with him, how they perhaps have enough children in the young staff below stairs.

Finishes by asking that he be on time to the church, _'you know how I hate to be left waiting, Charles'_ and he knows that is as close as she will get to right now to mentioning his silence those two months they thought him dead.

She signs it _'your Elsie'_ puts _'Mrs Hughes'_ just beneath, the last time she will ever write that name.

He re-reads the letter twice more before folding it, slips it into his jacket pocket above his heart. He still has her other letters, little stacks tied with blue ribbon in a box that now sits in _their_ room.

He pulls out the polish, his shirt bands and a cloth. Picks up the serving dish with a hum.

He tells himself that he is not sure what came over him in Lady Edith's room, but that is a lie. The sight of her bent over, adjusting the bed linen as he passed the door, the last strains of her conversation as Anna left. His wife's pink cheeks.

He prides himself on being a sensible man but she makes it so easy to forget. He still feels younger than his years today and impatient to spend time with her.

He did not think he could feel prouder than he had this morning walking back from the church with her arm in his, and yet he does.

She is his wife now, he does not know how any man can stand to not be her husband.

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><p>Okay, so *technically* she wrote the letter <em>before<em> they were married, but he wasn't supposed to see it until after so...

Next time: _the first drink_...


	6. one more for the road

**A/N: **Aw, I'm glad you all liked the letter and Mr Carson's thoughts/reactions. These two, they're becoming my favourite romance. On a personal note I am an awful person and am now so far behind in replying to reviews that I am going to beg forgiveness and reply to any you may wish to leave from this chapter onwards. I do most of my looking using the mobile site and that one doesn't allow for replies to reviews (at least not on my phone anyway), posting or editing but I can PM from it so I will try to make a point of doing that in future. I do love the comments you guys make! Once again, a little literary licence: I gave Mrs Hughes a settee in Beyond The Sea and she and Charles will make use of it in this fic in the future. ;)

Anyway, drabble six: _the first drink_

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><p><strong>_one more for the road_<strong>

She sees him pause in the doorway, a little break in his step when he notices the sherry glasses and decanter on her table.

They have not shared sherry since the last night before he left.

She had promised to keep it waiting for him, had mentioned it in her letters when saying 'I miss you' was not enough.

Since he has been back they have had wine, whisky, tea. But never sherry.

He has not mentioned it, she knows, because he thinks she may have forgotten. Does not want to bring it up, to risk upsetting her.

He is a dear sweet man, Charles Carson.

But she has not forgotten. Not the smell of train smoke on a platform in April, not the feel of his first letter held tightly between her fingers, not the slightly jagged way he wrote _'Elsie'_ for the first time - like he was scared to put the word down, frightened at what it could mean.

She has not forgotten a single moment of their life apart or any number of the promises she made to herself and to him while he was gone.

Somewhere along the way, between the crooked socks and the first time she signed with love, their shared glasses of sherry became about more than getting him home. More than seeing him again.

She had hoped, when hope was more rare than diamonds and pearls, that he would ask her to marry him. That they could be _in love_ without having to hide their hearts away.

She could not have known how soon upon his return he would bring that hope to life.

But the sherry, as she had promised, is waiting.

"Come in Charles." She says, shifts over on the settee and pats at the cushion. "I've been waiting for you to pour."

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><p>Next time: <em>the first step<em>


	7. nothing more romantic

**A/N: **This is a short one, but it's a Friday, so I plan to post the next one before I retire for the night. ;) Thank you to everyone who continues to review, you are my heroes. After this drabble the rating is going to ramp up, so I'll change that on the next update.

In the meantime; drabble seven: _the first step_**  
><strong>

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><p><strong>_nothing more romantic (than the touch of a hand)_<strong>

He takes her hand at the attic stairs. Curls his finger around hers, feels the slight tremble.

His heart is beating loud enough in his ears that he is certain she must hear it.

He cannot tell her he is as nervous as she is. He has some experience, and soldiers talk even if he often wished they had not, but he is a private man, a proud one. And for a long time there was only _her_ in his thoughts. He could not think of taking another woman to his bed.

He had not honestly believed he would take her to _their_ bed, until he knew it without any doubt.

He will not tell her, not tonight. She needs to believe he knows what she does not, that has always been their way.

He squeezes her hand, brings it to his lips and gently kisses her fingers.

Her breath stutters in the quiet air and he keeps his lips resting against her skin.

This is not the playful excitement of the afternoon, or the passion that will come soon. This is the soft surety of love, that they will be together in a way that physical separation will not undo.

"Are you ready, Elsie?" He asks, voice a whisper against her knuckles, bouncing back to tickle his cheek.

She turns their hands, touches his face, grips his chin and pulls him in.

"For you." Her mouth near his, lips almost touching. "Only ever you, Charles."

He tucks their joined hands over his elbow, brings her in close beside him. Takes one last breath before leading her up the stairs.

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><p>Next time: <em>the first kiss<em>


	8. build a lego house

**A/N: **So here's the final drabble of the night. As I said, from here on out (although not here exactly) the rating is going to start going up so I've raised it already, kind of pre-emptively. We've finally made it to their rooms! (And I thought this story would only be about this many drabbles long, so naive.) Please enjoy.

Drabble eight: _the first kiss (Elsie)_

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><p><strong>_build a lego house_<strong>

There had been a choice, Her Ladyship said. They could have a cottage close by in the village or a set of rooms in the little used part of the attics.

There was a choice, and still no choice at all. Charles could never be happy to leave the house each evening and she could not forgive herself if one of her girls needed her and she was not there.

A cottage of their own is a nice dream, a pipe dream, but the rooms will suit them fine.

She has been up here several times the last few weeks, settling furniture and choosing linen. Her things have all been moved here now, his too and she really must start thinking of the place as _theirs_.

This is home, their home, a part of the great house all their own.

He lifts her by the waist again at the door, carries her over the threshold. "Are you going to do that for every door we pass through together?"

She feels light in his arms, cherished.

"I might."

She fiddles with the curtains, turns to ask if he likes them, if they are something he thinks he could live with. His eyes are dark in his face and he is looking at her, not the fabric when he says that they are perfect and living with them will be a dream.

She is nervous, so nervous walking towards him, rests one hand against the settee back to steady herself, reaches for his hand.

His fingers, nails neatly trimmed, are in parts rough and smooth, small cuts and grazes beside skin so soft she cannot wait to feel it touch her own.

Big, powerful hands large enough to wrap around her own and cover them completely.

His thumb rubs patterns on her palm.

"I've never..." She starts.

"I know."

"I don't..."

"I know."

"Do you?" She says then, tugs their hands down by her waist to bring him closer, studies his face, asks again but asking something else. "Do you?"

His face is sheepish, eyes flicking away for a moment, then back; decision made. "We'll figure it out together, Elsie."

She smiles, that is honest and then huffs. "Well of course we will Charles. I'll not be having you learn with someone else."

"Nor I, you." He says, like something out of an 18th century novel. Her own literary hero.

"Oh, but Branson is so-"

He drops her hand, clasps her waist, tugs her as close as she can be. His look is fierce, eyes black as the night outside. "Kiss me."

Her breath stutters and she thinks she might get away with one last joke, one final quip before the humour is all gone tonight.

She kisses him instead, grips his shirt, his shoulders for balance, rises on her toes and slams her mouth against his. The kiss is only as gentle as it has to be, filling her with heat and ideas, ideas society tells her she should not have.

She is a married woman, with a strong, healthy husband. She'll have all the ideas she likes.

He pushes back just as hard, fingers curling into her skin, pressing so hard she can feel them through her skirts.

Her legs are pressed against the settee back, her chest against his. She can feel his heart next to her own, opens her mouth and seeks out his tongue.

So illicit to want this, to need this so much. She flushes, does not pull away.

He hums, growled out and vibrating through both their chests.

He reaches for the buttons on her dress, fingers trembling and she almost gives in, almost.

"Charles." She says, then again because it is too quiet to be heard over the pounding of their blood. "Not here." Not yet.

He looks dazed for a moment, head turning, searching, confused and then he smiles. "I see another door." And he lifts her into his arms, scoops her up like a doll, like a man half his age and carries her towards their bedroom.

She kisses his neck, his jaw, feels him shiver.

One last joke and now the time for them is over.

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><p>Next time: <em>the first touch<em>


	9. ready for love

**A/N: **And so now we have the morning after...

...I joke of course, would I do that to you guys after everything we've been through? Thank you for all of your comments on the last chapter, I'm glad you liked it, I did rather enjoy writing that one.

Drabble nine: _the first touch (of her ankle)_

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><p><strong>_ready for love_<strong>

He lays her out on the bed.

In her uniform dress, hair still pinned, she is Mrs Hughes as he has always known her. But lying here, among their sheets, lips red and swollen, her eyes a darker blue than he has ever seen them before, she is every dream he has had of her. Better because she is _real_.

The passion of moments ago has ebbed, slipped below now that he can look at her.

The strength, the need behind her kiss had overwhelmed him, to know that she wants this, wants him as much as he does her, sets his blood alight.

He is not a man of many words, always uses others' to make a point, but for her he feels as though he could write a thousand sonnets and never quite finish telling her what she means to him.

Other men marry and hope to change their wives. He hopes she will change him.

He cannot help but smile, reach out one hand and touch her ankle. She already has.

With careful fingers he unties her shoes, slips them from her feet one after the other. Slides off her stockings and lets them fall to the floor. Is aware of the look she gives him, unsure why he has slowed when before he was ready to undress her with a few flicked buttons.

But this is special. Oh, he will have this over and over, her reactions to the brush of his finger against her toes, the curve of her calf tell him they will do this again. But this is the first time he will undress her. The first time he can hold her ankle in his hand and kiss the ball of a foot that has supported her all day. The first time he will see her, all of her. Will kiss her, taste her, map her body in his mind to never forget.

This is why he resisted her these last weeks, why they clung to propriety and honour when they both knew nothing was going to keep them from that church and those vows.

Because she deserves - they both deserve - this first time to be careful, to be powerful, to be a memory they will look back on and cherish not because it is the first time, but because it is perfect to them.

Much of their courtship has been difficult and unusual. He has not taken her to all the places he wishes she could see, has not bought her all the gifts he longs to shower upon her, has not told her enough that he loves her.

But here, tonight, with his lips pressed against the little dip in her ankle, he will cherish her. All of her, every part that makes her his Elsie Carson.

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><p>Next time: <em>the first touch pt. 2<em>


	10. teenage dream

**A/N: **Thank you everyone. I'm posting this ahead of schedule as I'll be out of the house all of tomorrow and Downton (Sun)Days should not go unremarked. We're definitely moving forward now.

Drabble ten: _the first touch (of his collarbone)_

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><p><strong>_teenage dream_<strong>

The nerves return as his passion slows. She feels like an offering, laid out across the sheets. She remembers something her mother once said, deep in drink and pain, unable to really _see_ her daughter beside her. 'Just lay back and think of Scotland, lass.'

Elsie had been fourteen and scared of losing her mother. Pleased with the attention from the farmhands but not really sure yet, where it could lead.

She had always known that her parents married for practical reasons, no great love affair. But to hear it in that moment. To know that in her last days her mother could still not raise enough love for her husband to think of the act as more than a duty, Elsie had closed herself off to it too.

It had been an easy choice then, to go into service. To leave the farm to her sister and father, the farmhands to other young lasses.

She watches Charles now, lavishing such attention on her feet, fascinated by the turn of her ankle and she is not thinking of Scotland or duty. Is thinking of his strong hands that have balanced dishes, held guns and surely brought death, that touch her as though she is made of spun glass and he cannot bear to see her shatter. Hands that wrote to her when they could and held her tight when he returned.

Hands that she longs to feel on her skin, to follow her calf, past her knee and touch the soft skin of her thigh. To reach between to that place that only he awakes.

She thinks of what her mother missed, what she almost lost herself and pulls her foot from his hand. Sits up among the pillows.

Meets his eyes as he looks down at her, crooks a finger and beckons him up the bed.

Presses her lips to his, says his name into the hollow of his mouth. Reaches for his collar and slips her fingers beneath it, feels the heat of his flush, the strong line of his collarbone.

His hands lay against her back, covering so much of it and she feels so hot now, in this dress.

With careful fingers she undoes buttons, slides his collar off to see the places she has touched.

His pulse jumps beneath her hand and he rests his head against her hair. Framing her, sheltering her. She is surrounded by him, overwhelmed by his scent and they are still not close enough.

She shifts, climbs to her knees and onto his lap, feels his thighs beneath her.

In the moment before she settles down she remembers his wounds, so well hidden today without his cane, the limp gone.

She looks into his eyes, sees the moment he follows where her thoughts have gone. His hands, moved to her hair and neck while she shifted, slide back down to her waist, tug and push in turn until she is almost forcefully pressed down into his lap.

"Not tonight, love." He whispers, lips against her ear, nose nuzzling behind. "Don't let it touch us tonight."

She thinks of arguing, laying reason out between them, but she trusts him. He has shown no sign of pain today, as he lifted her. Has not for several days now.

So she settles, relaxes into his hold. Follows his collarbone back to his throat, leans forward and sucks a kiss into the shallow. He growls, she feels it through her lips, against her cheek and she presses fluttering kisses up his neck to his Adam's Apple, to his jaw.

Tips back into the hand at her neck as his mouth copies hers.

Okay, she thinks, okay.

* * *

><p>Next time: <em>the first undoing<em>


	11. come undone

**A/N: **Thank you everyone, I can't believe how much you're all enjoying this story but I am so glad! I just re-mapped the story in my mind to see how much more I had already planned on, and the list went to 25 in total (these past ones included), about half of those remaining are all still based during the wedding night and morning after. Hope you enjoy this one too.

Drabble eleven: _the first undoing (of her corset)._

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><p><strong>_come undone_<strong>

He takes the first pin out almost accidentally; fingers caught in her hair, the little piece metal follows behind when he slips them out.

A lock of hair, soft and curled falls down, brushes the shoulder of her dress and he almost goes back, takes them all out with hurried movements. But there is something in his mind at the sight of that curl, something precious and demanding.

He longs to see her hair undone, but more than that he wants to see those curls against her bare shoulders, tickling her skin with each pin he removes.

Her head is still tipped back, throat offered up to him. He kisses her jaw, reaches for the first hidden button at her chest.

The little nub slips through easy enough and he moves to the next, the next until he has her dress undone to the waist, the shape the only thing keeping it closed against her.

He looks into her eyes then, wants to see one more time that she wants this, that it is not duty to her husband but her own desire that keeps her pressed against him. Her eyes search back and she smiles, leans away, her weight on his thighs and takes his hands in hers. Brings them to the edges of her dress, folds his fingers around the fabric and pulls, helping him unwrap her.

She has always given him the gifts he needs the most.

The corset and shift look new and with the touch of lace against his fingertips he realises she bought these with her wedding dress, has been walking around in them all day, hidden beneath her work clothes.

He could not take off her wedding dress but she has given him this.

Her chest bounces with her breathing, heaving as he continues to study her. Her skin is so pale, dusted with tiny freckles and painted a rosy red as she flushes under his eyes.

Her shoulders are almost bare enough now, but still he leaves her hair, runs his hands down the stiff bone of the corset.

He could turn her around, slip the ties through each hole, unlace her slowly, but she takes in a deep breath, lets it out and then contracts her stomach.

He grips the top, knuckles brushing against the curve of her breasts, pushes the edges together, the hooks unclipping.

Taking no more time on it than he must, he pulls the corset apart.

It catches, the straps still caught in her skirts, he almost blushes himself at having forgotten them.

He wonders how she must feel, her clothes half off, sprawled between his chest and the pillows. She looks like every indecent picture he has ever confiscated from a young footman's room.

Gently, he eases her back, catches the little half smile on her lips as she works her dress down over her hips. He stops her then. Replaces her hands with his and slides the material down her legs.

The corset falls away as soon as she sits up again, and his hands fall to her waist - he wants her back in his lap, close to him - but he falters.

Where before she was stiff, she is now soft, his hands curl around the dip at her waist, tuck into the bend of her hip. So soft.

Slowly, he pulls away again, reaches for the hem of her shift and tugs it up over her body, over her head.

Sees her slowly revealed to him.

She wears nothing above her waist now and he could spend days looking at her, will spend years trying to memorize every line and shape that forms her.

She tugs at his hand, brings his attention to her face.

"Charles, you're a little over dressed."

With a grin - a little smug, a little awed - he shrugs out of his jacket, starts on the buttons she did not undo earlier.

"We can't have that." He says as his fingers work.

She smiles, embarrassment only visible in the slight hesitation before she speaks. "No, Mr Carson, we cannot."

* * *

><p>Next time: <em>the first sight...<em>


	12. never fall, jump

**A/N: **Oh, she tries so hard to strip him, and she almost gets there. ;) Thank you to everyone still reading and reviewing, you guys make my day.

Drabble twelve: _the first sight (of his body)_

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><p><strong>_never fall, jump_<strong>

She stops the frantic motion of his hands. Pulls them away from his shirt, sets them low on her back.

It is a struggle not to look away from him. Not to pull her shift back on and hide.

Not since she was a child has she been this bare before a man; not even Doctor Clarkson has seen her like this.

She hardly looks at herself in a looking glass anymore and she doubts that she is all that much _to_ look at.

But Charles, the black of his eyes, the hungry yearning look he gives her, he makes her feel pretty.

She does not need flowery words, or compliments handed out like sweets. She has long passed the time when she might have thought her worth linked to her looks.

But she had worried, _has_ worried until now that she may disappoint him. That she is not everything he may have imagined her to be.

His distraction now, how he cannot keep his eyes on her face for long, the twitch of his fingers at her back, tell her she has no reason to be afraid.

Now, she wants to see him. Wants to feel his skin with her fingers. She wants, though she may never say it out loud, to taste him.

She wonders what he will taste like, will it have anything of his scent, how will it change after a day's work?

She stops herself, feels her cheeks heating more. She is becoming a wanton woman in his arms.

She peels his shirt from him, spreads her hands beneath, slides then up to his shoulders and lifts it away.

She watches his eyes as she guides his arms out of the sleeves. She has seen him in jackets and shirts, pyjamas and robe, she has seen him half unbuttoned with fever and buttoned up so tightly in his uniform before he left.

But she has never seen his naked chest, his bare arms. Once she looks, she will have this memory of him forever. Will see him like this everytime their eyes meet across a room.

She hesitates too long, knows she will see scars, does not want the past to intrude here again.

"Elsie, love. You don't have to look."

Her dear, dear man.

With a breath, she lets her eyes drop down, follows the line of his throat down, down.

He looks strong, his chest hard, wisps of hair curling around her fingers as she reaches out to touch, to feel. Lets her hands draw the shape of him into her mind.

His stomach is soft against her own when she shifts, leans forward to press their bodies together.

She turns her head to the starburst mark at his shoulder, the skin redder than the rest, puckered.

She thought it would bring back the fear; that she could have lost him, that for two months she _did_. But instead she can think only that he survived, that he came home, lived through his wounds, fought odds she cannot calculate to return to her.

She kisses the scar, runs her tongue across the mark. Wants to heal more than the physical pain. Another night, perhaps she will.

"You came home." She whispers against his skin, feels his breath hitch.

Fingers shaking, she reaches for the buttons at his waist. No more hiding now, for either of them.

* * *

><p>Next time: <em>the first taste<em>


	13. five senses

**A/N: **Hello my patient little readers. I come bearing some NSFW moments here. Mrpoohnminnie made a manip, I was inspired (and a little overexposed to fluff) and finally Mr Carson decided enough was enough and took their wedding night up a step.

Drabble thirteen: _the first taste_

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><p><strong>_five senses_<strong>

Her fingers tickle against his stomach but he hardly notices, her breasts pressed up against him like this. Warm and soft, brushing across his chest as she moves, reaches for a better angle. He cannot think of her now as Mrs Hughes; only Elsie, his wife, his _lover_. Only ever that now.

He grips her shoulders, barely keeps himself from pressing up into her.

He can feel himself, already risen, growing stiffer, can feel the warmth of her meeting him through her underclothes, his trousers. The look on her face as she kissed his scars, the way she has lost her nervousness now, relights the passion from before, hidden so close to the surface.

He leans in, buries his head in her neck, sucks as he did this morning, doesn't stop when her breath catches, when he can feel heat rising to the surface. Laps at her skin with his tongue, the taste of her familiar as though he has been doing this all of his life.

She tastes of salt, of perspiration and soap, she tastes of dreams.

Her fingers slip as she releases the last button, feel hot against his skin.

She has to pull away to let him push the trousers down, but he cannot let her go, helps her rise up on her knees over him instead. Her hand and his tugging and pushing until the trousers and underclothes slip to the floor with the rest.

Before she can settle back on him he stops her. Slips down under the bridge of her legs, kisses her stomach on the way, smiles at the jumping nerves.

His fingers tease the edge of her knickers, satin and lace, dip below the little bits of ribbon holding them tight to her thighs.

Her skin here is even softer, like silk against his rough fingertips.

She shifts above him, unconsciously chasing his fingers as they move and he catches the scent of her, so natural, so primal. Leans forward and presses his nose to her, breathes in through the satin. His mouth waters.

"I want to taste you." He says, surprises himself. Catches her at the waist when her knees wobble against the mattress. Holds her still, looks up into her wide eyes. "Please Elsie." His thumb slips back under the satin, rubs against the gentle curve of her belly. "Please."

She nods, quick jerky movements and he is reaching for the laces at the back before she can change her mind, slides the open fabric down her thighs. Kisses her breasts as she bends forward, catches herself against the headboard to kick off the knickers.

Without the flimsy barrier the smell of her is even stronger and when she rises up again he leans back in, noses into the soft curls.

Her entire body trembles and he cups her bottom, soothes a hand down the back of a thigh. "I've got you." He says into her, wants to be sure she wants this.

He rests there a moment, breathes against her. Her trembling increases and he thinks to pull away, cannot bear to think he is upsetting her.

"Kiss me." She says and he makes to lift his head away. He will try again another time, when this is not so new. There is so much more of her to touch, to taste, he doesn't have to have this now.

Her fingers stop him, slide into his hair and hold his head still. "There." She says, the word broken in half and barely audible.

He lets his breath out shakily, purses his lips and kisses where his nose had been, slips even further down the mattress so that she is straddling his chest.

His lips slide lower, still touching, tracing. _Exploring_.

He has never had this, has not imagined it, could not have expected Elsie to want it if he had.

He thinks, letting his tongue lap out to taste her, that she will never not surprise him. He would have her no other way.

* * *

><p>Next time: <em>the first 'I love you' pt. 2<em>


	14. love changes everything

**A/N: **I'm going to have to stop calling these drabbles soon if they stay at this length. Thank you _everyone_ who read and reviewed the last. I was a little nervous but you certainly got me over that with your kind comments (and moments of complete jibberish). We're almost through this first time, moving on to a few non-sex related firsts again (although still not on the otherside of this wedding night yet). Again NSFW.

Drabble fourteen: _the first 'I love you' part two._

* * *

><p><strong>_love changes everything_<strong>

When she let herself think about this night before he returned and then after, when a wedding night was guaranteed, she thought it would be nice. Good.

She imagined he would be gentle, patient. Thought she might surprise him, not laying back still, but perhaps not so wanton that he questioned her innocence - she reads, has always read. Has learnt a lot from books.

She had considered passion, with red cheeks and hot skin, had considered that he might not go slowly; might, if he felt for her as she does, become lost to his instincts and drives.

She has spent many long nights considering how he might touch her, how he might feel against her.

She could not, had not, _would_ not have imagined this.

The heat of his breath against her thigh, the brush of stubble against the delicate skin. She will be sore tomorrow from that alone; the thought has her breath catching once more. That she will feel him all day, not just from this but from the other too.

And his tongue, his mouth. He has them pressed to parts of her no one else has ever touched. There is something down there, vibrating, tingling with every brush of his tongue against her. Something that tightens the hot, heavy feeling in her stomach.

Her toes curl, knees pressing hard against the bed, back arching. Something like a knot winds tighter inside her and she shakes, does not know the feeling, knows that she wants more.

"Charl-_Charles_" She begs; for him to stop, for him to not. For him to tell her this is right and natural. That she can crave him there, that she can want it like this.

He hums, spreads the sound through her and everything clenches. Once, twice over and over. She cries out, high and broken, his name cracking apart as it bounces back to her ears. Presses a hand across her mouth, eyes open wide. Curls the other in his hair and pulls. He growls and she clenches again, again. Body alight for one single moment, feels like time stopping, like seeing him again back from the dead, one second pulled long.

He presses kisses against her, turns his head and she feels his lips back against her leg.

His hand strokes her stomach, she curls around it, trembling, coming down from something she has no words for.

He pulls her down with him, holds her face between his hands and kisses her.

She tastes herself, on his lips. Already hot skin heats further, cheeks turning red. She dips her tongue into his mouth, chases past her taste, seeks his behind it.

He groans and pushes against her, she can feel him against her thigh, hard and heavy.

Walks her fingers down his chest between them, down his stomach. Keeps their lips together until she needs to breathe.

She circles him with finger and thumb, brushes her palm down, back up.

"Elsie." He says, takes one hand from her face and grips her wrist.

She wonders if she did it wrong, if he likes it another way. He reads something in her eyes, leans in and kisses her again, pulls her lip out from between her teeth, soothes it.

"I need you." He grips her hip, pulls her close so that he lines up with her. "Like this."

His hand leaves her wrist, fingers slipping where his mouth has been, slide between her legs and amongst the folds she has hardly ever touched herself.

The fluttering of his fingertips sets her tingling again, those deep parts of her clenching. This, this is what all those maids have felt all these years. Not all of this, but some. She can see why they would break all the rules to feel even a little like this.

His fingers slide deeper, one into her and she gasps. He smiles against her cheek.

He moves it, in and out, around, strokes her inside, brings another finger to her lips and she opens for it, sucks it into her mouth, lets him copy his own movements.

He adds another between her legs, she feels the burn, the ache but it gives quickly and she presses against the feeling. Feels herself stretching.

That something coils tightly again. She needs more, more than his fingers, needs _him_.

"Now." She says around his finger, feels him jerk against her. Squeezes her hand, remembering again where it rests.

"You're not-"

"Now, Charles." Another finger, she arches, back bending as she tries to push as close as she can. "Please."

Meets his dark eyes, almost black now and smiles. His finger drops from her mouth, the others pull out from her.

She feels hollow, emptied out and wound tight.

Tips onto her back when he rolls them, ignores the pins digging into her head, lets him guide her legs around him.

She looks up at him, his familiar lines hovering over her. Needs to tell him now, before she gives everything she has left to him. "I do love you, Mr Carson." Brushes the backs of her fingers against his cheek.

He smiles wide, drops a clumsy kiss to her nose.

Says, "and I you, Mrs Carson" and pushes forward, tips his hips against her own and she feels him begin to slip between her folds.

Already she can feel her body building up to something again, wonders if it will feel the same when she crashes back down.

He slides against the aching hollow of her and she will not the same person after this, will be something she never thought she could be.

She reaches down again, guides him into her - she will be a lover.

She thinks she might enjoy her new title just as much as he will.

* * *

><p>next time: <em>the first sight (of her hair down)<em>


	15. this is everything

**A/N: **Okay, we're moving closer to snuggling territory now, just for a bit. ;) Thank you to everyone who has commented on the last chapter, I was blown away by how much you all loved it! This one's a little gentler, really a bridge between all the smut and the few non-sex based firsts that are coming up!

Drabble fifteen: _the first sight (of her hair down)_

* * *

><p><strong>_this is everything_<strong>

Afterwards, as he lays back and looks at her, looks even when she blushes and shifts - he cannot even consider looking away from her now. Afterwards, he plays back the way her face changed; the love, nervousness - the little pain that he tried to pull away from, but she stopped him, legs wrapped around his hips, heels holding him in place - the pleasure she seemed to feel right there at the end, her body clenching around him.

He thinks he may never be able to describe how she has made him feel tonight. How she has exceeded even the dreams he might have imagined, had he more experience of his own.

He always knew, right from the moment he realised it was love - a real love - that he felt for her, that if she wanted, if she let them, they could be happy together. He had not thought that he could be this happy, this satisfied, sated by her. That he could find so much pleasure in just the feel of her breath against his chest.

Oh, he isn't done, wishes that he was a younger man able to have her again so soon. Wants to wrap himself around her, inside her. He fears she could consume him if he let her and how he wants to let her.

But he is not as young as she makes him feel, so he looks. Lets his fingers touch the places the low sheet leaves uncovered.

He thought he had burnt all of her into his memory but he finds that he has already forgotten the little mole just where her breast curves, how her skin is smoother where her clothes cover her everyday. If she were a Lady, if she had not worked and cared and strived, this is how the skin of her hands would feel.

"Charles, you're staring." She says, then; "you make me feel like I should cover up."

She reaches for the sheets and he stops her, takes her hand, curls her fingers around his own, kisses her knuckles.

"You're beautiful." And so much more. Things he doesn't know the words for, but he will. He'll learn them for her so that at least in his mind he knows how to describe her. And maybe, on the days that they argue, when he says something to make her cry, he'll have the words there ready and she'll smile.

"I'm old." Her cheeks flush. "And so are you. Too old for nonsense like that."

"We'll never be too old for the truth Mrs Carson."

"Yes, well. We'll see."

She cannot know how that thrills him, that they have a future together, years for her to see that this time she is wrong.

She reaches her free hand up to her hair, still pinned but no longer neat and tidy. Locks of it falling all about her face from their efforts.

He stops her again, smiles. "Let me." Helps to tug her up against the pillows, holds the sheet at her waist when she moves to pull it with her.

He was distracted before but now, in the lazy moments of after, he takes his time again, pulls the pins out one by one, curls each section around his finger as it comes undone.

Her hair bounces as it touches her shoulders, rests there with just the tips touching her skin.

With the last pin in the palm of his hand every trace of _Mrs Hughes_ is gone.

No one has ever seen her like this. No one else ever will.

He slides his hands into her hair, cups the back of her head in his palms, pulls her in for a kiss. Slow, lazy, his tongue circling hers, tracing the edges of her teeth, the arch of her mouth.

He pulls back and buries his face in her neck; her hair a thick curtain around him, breathes deep and inhales her, feels her settle into his bones. Thinks; _so beautiful_ and maybe says it into her skin.

"Silly man." She says, but her hands reach for his shoulders and she pulls him in close.

* * *

><p>Next time: <em>the first story pt. 1<em>


	16. the inkless pen is mightier

**A/N: **Thank you! You have no idea how much I have loved all of your comments on the last chapter; honestly I wasn't sure the last one was any good. That's not me fishing, I really didn't think it was anything special. But your comments have made me re-look at it and yeah, I like it. I think it was the struggle I had picking this writing style back up after A_ttending_ and F_ive Names. _Anyway, please enjoy this one, a quiet moment with Mrs Carson.

Drabble sixteen: _the first story pt. 1_

* * *

><p><strong>_the inkless pen is mightier_<strong>

Her fingertips trail through his chest hair, write letters on his skin.

She is sure he cannot pick them out, but if he could he would know she loves him, is happy, happier than she thought it was possible for her to be.

She writes an invisible letter to him while his breath falls deep and even in her ear.

She supposes she could mind that he has fallen asleep, drifted off while she was telling him of Miss O'Brien's latest scheme. She does not.

Now she can rest against him, take in his presence without him seeing the sadness - the pain - that she knows is in her eyes.

She has tried not to let the past, the recent past, touch them here in this bed but how can she not when he has been back home for less time than she thought him dead?

Today has been a dream and dreams can end. She worries that she will wake up with Mr Bates in _his_ pantry and only a telegram to tell her of his fate.

She knows this is real, but she imagined something like this so many times in those two months. Dreamed and hoped and then he was home and perhaps she is just asleep.

But his chest feels real, the beat of his heart beneath her hand. And so she writes him a letter. Letters kept him alive to her for almost two years, she trusts in them.

She writes that she loves him, that she still needs him; more now than ever.

In a whisper she says the words out loud, hopes they seep into his mind and take root, so that he knows the things she could never say when he is awake.

That she missed him so much sometimes that it was hard to breathe. That turning a corner and half-expecting him to be there is more familiar to her now than actually finding him there. That she does not regret loving him, but that there was a moment in those two months when she wished she had never fallen for him. When she might have mourned him as a friend, but nothing more. Not felt her heart hanging in purgatory until there was word one way or another.

Her finger pauses, her voice catches before she tells him the last; that she hopes she goes first because she does not want to go through that again.

Tonight has been more perfect than she could have imagined, than she did imagine. Tonight is about them, the future and so she will leave these thoughts here, in this in-between moment when he is not aware. Writes the letter to get the thoughts off of her chest and onto his, here where they cannot hurt him.

And when she is finished, when there is nothing more she can think of, when she has dried her tears on the sheets; she tells him a story.

Of a young girl who knew she could never be happy as a farmer's wife. Of a young Butler she met at an interview in a big house that made her forget about farms and marriage, made her plan for other things instead.

He grumbles and shifts beneath her fingers, waking slowly and she smiles.

"Of course he made her dream of marriage again, Charles, only it wasn't just a dream."

Still, she won't close her eyes until she is absolutely sure he will still be there in the morning.

* * *

><p>Next time: <em>the first bath.<em>


	17. rub-a-dub-dub

**A/N: **Thank you everyone! All your kind words; I'm blown away by how much you liked the last chapter. I'm noticing a theme developing with these chapters; Elsie overthinks and brings some romantic and painful feels, and Charles gets all hot and bothered and drags her back to bed. ;)

Drabble Seventeen: _the first bath_

* * *

><p><strong> _rub-a-dub-dub_<strong>

He stretches as he wakes, muscles and joints protesting. The sky outside is still dark and he can feel her eyes on him, watching so he knows he has not been out for long.

He cannot believe that he fell asleep, but then he is happy, content, safe. Her scent surrounds him, brings peace that goes bone deep and so he cannot be that surprised that his blinks grew longer and her voice followed him down.

He groans, flinches when his leg stretches, his shoulder pulls.

He has not used the stick today, has not used it for several days. He wanted to stand in that church unsupported, a whole undamaged man. Wanted her to marry him without injury, without anything that would remind her of what might have been, what was.

Perhaps he should not have lifted her - twice. Should not have settled over her and moved on his legs alone. But his hands had been busy; could not stand to brace against the bed when they could be touching her.

He thought he would pay for it in the morning, but the ache came earlier than he expected.

Fingers stroke down his cheek, he blinks eyes open to see her, robe on, leaning over him.

"I've run you a bath."

Her hand slips down his neck, across collarbone and shoulder, down his stomach and lower, rests below his hip, above the scar there. The heat of her palm works through him, releases some of the tightness, creates more elsewhere.

"Marry me, Mrs Carson." He says, delights in her laugh, the slap of her small hand against his chest.

"Too late. I'm afraid I'm already taken."

She helps him sit up, he leans into her more than he needs to, avoids the knowing glance she sends his way.

"I hope he knows he's a lucky man."

She stops them on the way to the small bathroom. Cups his cheek, stretches up on her toes to press a kiss to his lips. "Oh I think he does."

His arms circle her waist, pull her in close. Her robe has fallen open and she has not replaced her shift, stands there as bare as he is where it has separated.

"And you?"

She smiles, cheeky. "I know he's lucky too."

He squeezes her sides, feels her jump and wriggle, squirm against him. Feels his smile widen; _ticklish_. His wife is ticklish.

He squeezes again, flexes his fingers and she pulls away, clasps his hand in hers and tugs. "The water will be cold."

Waits until they are closed in the bathroom, steam climbing the walls before she turns to him, looks him over with bright eyes. "I know exactly how lucky I am, Mr Carson."

There is nothing more to say then, she slips the robe off her shoulders, steps into the tub. It is just big enough for two and he will not think of His Lordship, of Her Ladyship, of what they can have intended with its presence, what it implies of their thoughts.

The water swirls around her as she sits, hides nothing from his view. A quirked eyebrow and she shuffles forward, makes room for him behind her.

That eyebrow says; _in your own time, Charles_ and _I didn't go to all this trouble for me_.

She leans back against him as he settles in, the water hot enough that their skin pinks.

She is soft and light against him, he circles his arms around her, rests his hands across her stomach. Her bottom tucked in close, stirring him when she shifts.

Her hair floats on the surface, he leans in, nestles against her neck, nips at her ear. "If you don't stay still..." He bucks his hips a little, enough to finish his sentence for him.

Feels her tense against him, hears her breath catch.

She shifts.

He turns her then, hands at her waist, water lapping dangerously at the sides.

Her chest rises out above the water and she straddles him, grips his neck, the tub. He slides his hands up her stomach, cups her breasts.

She leans over him as she lowers herself down, he feels her mouth against his the moment before he slips inside her.

Her body opens for him, the water and earlier working to ease him in. He groans, she sighs, his fingers tighten around her, knead her breasts.

She is weightless, rising and lowering, body creating waves and ripples about them. He closes his eyes, imagines them elsewhere, a lake, a beach. Sun beating down on them, all alone in the shallows.

His thumb catches a little nub, brushes it. Her body tightens, jerks around him. Not finished, but she liked that. He does it again and then with the other.

She whispers his name out in the little space between them.

He can feel his muscles bunching as pleasure builds, but she is doing all the work, slips a hand down to her thigh, feels it tensing as she moves.

The scent of her, of them, mixes with the candle wax in the air, the soap somewhere soaked through from their splashing.

He'll never bathe again and not think of her, he'll never bathe alone when he can help it.

She clenches around him, hips twisting a little and he is lost.

* * *

><p>Next time: <em>the first nightmare <em>

(oh look, back to thinking and painful feels)


	18. once upon a dream

**A/N: **Guys, guys! You lovely wonderful people. I have a plan tonight to reply to as many of your reviews (for all my stories) as I can, so forgive me if in about 12 hours your mailboxes get spammed. I would manage it more regularly, if the mobile version of this site allowed for it! Anyway, a suggestion for reading this chapter. If you can, play _**Lana Del Ray's; Once Upon A Dream**_ (from the Maleficient soundtrack). I wasn't specifically listening to it while writing this, but it was playing at some point and it does create the right atmosphere.

_Drabble Eighteen: the first nightmare._

* * *

><p><strong>_once upon a dream_<strong>

It starts with a coldness; in her fingers, the tip of her nose. Like she has been left outside in the snow, without coat or gloves.

And then it spreads - she shivers - her arms, her legs, then her stomach, chest. It reaches her heart and she thinks _'finally'_, because now she will be numb, will not feel the cold like ice down her back.

But the numbness fails to come. And then she sees him, cannot believe she missed him all this time when he has been lying there by her feet.

She trips, stumbles her way to him; two steps that take a lifetime and kneels down beside him.

Reaches out for his face and meets the white cloth thrown over it. Turns it to ice as her fingers touch, his face visible now through the glass of it.

She rests too heavy on the surface, palm pressed where his cheek is and the ice splinters, shatters apart, becomes water lapping at her toes, hot against the coldness of them.

Her palm rests against his cheek and he turns into it, mumbles her name.

His skin is warm and she leans over, drops a kiss against his lips.

Her breath makes white clouds in the space between them.

The shivering has stopped, but she is so very cold.

She lays down beside him, curls into his side, looks up at his face, waits for him to look down.

His eyes open, white and sightless. _"It's time."_

And she feels the tears pour down her cheeks, fall as snowflakes on his chest when she looks away.

_"You came home."_ She whispers, the words writing themselves in the air around her.

_"No."_ He says. _"No, no no-"_

She wakes with a gasp, shivering, her cheeks damp.

After the bath they had both been too sated, too tired to do more than wrap themselves in towels before slipping bare beneath the covers.

The December air surrounds her now, the covers lost in the night and while her heart tries to break from her chest, she knows at least where the coldness of her dream came from.

The rest...the rest is not new, although his last words-

"No, no..." She jumps, his voice hardly above a whisper and turns to him. Finds the sheets wrapped tight around him.

His hand, flung free clenches in and out of a fist and he tosses his head against the pillow.

Still shaking, trembling from the things her own mind has conjured, she reaches out, strokes her hand down his arm.

He is warm and for a moment she is terrified.

He groans again, flinches from something only he can see and she pushes everything else away.

He is hurting and he needs her.

Her hand trails up his arm again, back down, pushes between his fingers and palm to uncurl his fist. Shifting over on the bed, she brings the other to his chest, up his neck to his jaw, rubs her thumb across his lips.

"Shh, Charles. You're safe."

He mumbles, head moving side to side and she leans over him, cards her fingers through his hair. Her lips brush against his ear as she whispers; "wake up Charles, I'm here."

And he does, another minute, two he calms slowly and he blinks up at her, eyes so dark they're nothing like her own dream.

She feels her heart begin to settle.

His hand circles her waist, thumb rubbing along her ribs beneath her breast.

"You were there." He says, voice crackly and raw, still half asleep. She cannot ask him where, not with his eyes pleading her to let him forget, so she pulls the sheets from around him, slips beneath them, tucks herself into his side, her head on his chest.

His hand still on her waist he pulls her in tight, both of them trembling.

"I'm here Charles." She says, kisses the hollow of his throat.

She still feels cold, but it's fading.

* * *

><p><em>Aaaaaand we can always rely on Elsie to bring the mood down. ;)<br>_

Next time: _the first morning after_


	19. morning has broken

**A/N: **Okay, I am the worst review-replier in the world. If I'm allowed any excuse can it be that I was in a Director's meeting for 5 hours yesterday afternoon and afterwards, when I finally got to go home, I was so wiped out I could barely actually _read_ anything let alone do much else. Please forgive me and I'll work on those reviews, promise! But thank you everyone, your kind words got me through the early part of that day. ;)

Drabble Nineteen (I can't believe this is now longer than the original): _the first morning after pt.1_

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><p><strong>_morning has broken_<strong>

He wakes first. The sky outside still grey, colourless as the sun begins to rise.

But what little light has seeped in, seems drawn to her. Lighting her up amongst their white sheets.

Her hair flows out like an inkblot against his chest, curled and wild where it was left free to dry itself.

Her skin is still pink, cheeks flushed and he thinks it might be from the heat of them, pressed this close together.

She has an arm across his stomach, her hand curled about his hip, grip tight even in sleep.

He had a nightmare, he remembers. One he has had many times this last year. Of her there on the battlefield, taking the place of too many men he watched over while they took their last breaths. Her voice; _'look after yourself'_ weak as water as she struggles to stay with him one more second, two. Hopelessly fighting the end.

-not even the worst he has had; those are not about her, are memories painful and bitter, of actions he never thought himself capable of until now-

His breath shudders and he hardly stops himself from tightening his arm around her. He does not want to wake her, not yet. Is not ready yet to face a new day, to draw a line under _yesterday_; their wedding day.

He cannot remember waking in panic, but does remember her eyes, sparkling in the night, her breath unsteady as his own as she calmed him.

He knows now that there will never be a time when he cannot love her more; he will think himself at the limit and she will prove him wrong.

He hopes that she will feel the same.

She stirs against him, eyelashes fluttering on her cheeks, stretches along him, curls back into him before her eyes open, look up at him.

She blushes, finding him looking back but how could he look away when this is everything he has dared to hope for? They will fight, make love, they will eat together and sit together. Heaven permitting they will grow older together and retire to a cottage in the village and he will always have this; the sight of her waking beside him. Of everything, of all the delights of the night just passed, it is this that makes him truly believe that she has married him. This silly fool she seems to love.

Her hand cups his cheek. "Good morning Mr Carson."

"It is, Mrs Carson." He leans down, kisses her cheek, her nose. Leans back just as she rolls her eyes at him. "Very good indeed."

She pushes up, presses her lips against his, her voice dropping low as it did so often last night. "Perhaps we can make it better."

He smiles, clutches at her hips and rolls them both over so that he lies between the cradle of her legs. "I think we have time."

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><p>Next time: <em>the first morning after pt. 2<em>


	20. like the first morning

**A/N: **Oh you delightful people. Thank you so much for all the birthday wishes! *smooshes you*. I was tempted to write them back in bed, but Elsie wanted to get on with her day (but we do have the first _second_ night...who knows?)

Drabble Twenty: _the first morning after pt.2_

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><p><strong>_like the first morning_<strong>

"You're staring at me again." She catches his eye in the mirror, frowns. He is dressed, sat upon their made bed; watching her as she pins the last of her unruly hair in place.

"Yes."

"What do you mean; 'yes'?" She finishes up, turns around on the little stool to face him.

"I mean I agree with you, Mrs Carson. I am staring at you."

"And do you intend to stop?"

She sees it then, the softness, the love that slips into his eyes as he looks at her, the way his lips curl; not like any smile he gave her _before_.

"No. I don't think I will."

Her breath catches and she swallows, bites her lip. She thinks she could cry if she let herself. She is happy enough that she might.

This man, this darling man who before was rough words, few of sentimentality and many of reason and properness. Who could not touch her hand or lead her with fingertips at her back because it would not be right. Who flushed and blustered and growled when romance or those soft tender words of love were touched upon in conversation. _This_ man who sits here now and tells her that he will not look away from her, who still has not, even as he rises from the bed and approaches.

This man who is _her_ man now. Hers in all the ways that matter and some that perhaps do not to anyone but them. Who has touched her and brought to life places in her that she never thought to miss.

Who can say he loves her with his lips on her own, his hands sliding slowly along the outline of her corset and dress. Who can _say_ "I love you" now against her neck.

This man is who she has married, all the parts of him she likes and even those she does not, make him the man that she loves.

She slaps his hand away when he reaches for the buttons at her chest.

"Not now, Mr Carson. We haven't time." She does not question how he can want her so soon; her own body feels as though it might awaken for him at just one more touch of his lips.

He looks at her again, pulls her up to stand before him. "Later." He says it with a nod, decisive and sure.

She lifts up to her toes, straightens his collar as she drops a light kiss to his mouth.

"Tonight, Mr Carson. When we've all the time we'll need."

She walks away then, picks up her chatelaine from the dressing table and clips it her skirts, steps into their sitting room. She is not ready to face the world outside this one they have built here between them, but it must be done. She does not fear that the outside world will change them; _knows_ that their actions will change outside these doors, that they will be Butler and Housekeeper once again. She would like more time now to be Elsie and Charles, just a little longer before they become Mr and Mrs Carson for everyone else but that is not their life.

"There'll never be enough time to touch you." His words trip her, slow her so that he slips out from behind her and reaches the door first. Walks through.

He turns, back straight, eyebrows raised high on his brow; _Mr Carson _again.

"Come along Mrs Carson, we've work to do. No time for dilly-dallying in doorways."

He is gone before she can say anything. With a huff, a smile, she follows him, locks up their home behind her.

Steps into the rest of the house.

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><p>Next time: <em>the first day<em>


	21. islands in the stream

**A/N: **Hello my faithful and well-loved readers. (Side note: how many lovely new stories are there being written right now? It's brilliant!). Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed the last chapter, especially those of you I haven't replied to yet. This one fought me, but I think in the end, I beat it into submission. We're firmly out of the NSFW zone at the moment, but don't worry, I think we'll be back there soon enough...

Drabble Twenty-One: _the first day _(after the wedding)

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><p><strong>_islands in the stream_<strong>

He supposes that he expected it to be strange after. Thinks it should be, that perhaps the House should feel different. That when he turns to her at breakfast and says; "Her Ladyship wishes to see you this morning, Mrs Carson" that _something_ should happen, something more than her nodding and handing him his buttered toast.

But later, standing in the breakfast room while His Lordship and the young Ladies eat, he understands why it all seems so normal. Why he got up from his seat and did not lean over to kiss her. Why he did not stumble over her name or clasp her by the waist as they passed in the corridor.

They are married, he loves her, he would very much like to take her in his arms and not let her go, to pull her back to their bed, spend days with her beneath the sheets. He thinks that when the door closes behind them tonight he will do just that. But right now, in this moment and every one since they left their rooms, they are not Mr and Mrs Carson; newlyweds; they are Mr and Mrs Carson; staff.

Of course they have not floundered in their act today; they have been playing these parts for years. They come naturally.

It is the staff reactions that he is struggling with. He has been a man of honour for so long, has done nothing to warrant smiles and laughter in the servant's hall, but today...

He is happy, he is. He would not give up Elsie for anything, he did after all, consider that he might have to give up everything to be with her the way they are know, would have done so without complaint.

He might not have come back from France, he might never have gone and then not realised for a long time how much she has come to mean to him, he might have never told her at all. He is grateful for the way his life has gone, for how it has led him here to this day after his wedding. He is thankful that she loves him the way he does her, that in the privacy of their home he can show her.

But the servants are talking, the _family_ are talking. Hide smiles as he passes, conversations quiet abruptly and then continue on loudly with new topics when he enters a room. When he and Elsie step into his panty before lunch to look over the guest list Her Ladyship has written for the party after Christmas, Mrs Patmore catches his eye and _winks_.

And Elsie, his dear wife, is no help, smiling back at the servants, joining their changed conversations, thanking Her Ladyship when she offers again her congratulations.

She is so calm, so steady, accepting the changes around her with an ease he cannot even envy because he does not understand it.

"They'll only stop when _you_ stop reacting to it, Mr Carson." She says at lunch, cutting her sandwich into triangles.

He is not reacting, is spending effort in great amounts to keep his face straight, his movements fluid and unchanged by the whispers, the knowledge these people have of their activities last night - not all of them; he does not believe any of them have the imagination to guess it all. He tells her as much, sips at his tea and makes a point not to look at her, not to glare down the table either, where Thomas and Miss O'Brien are twittering at each other.

Her hand lands on his thigh, fingers curling around him as she squeezes and he tries not to drop his cup.

"If you were any more tense, Mr Carson I would worry you had turned to stone." She squeezes again and he tries to relax, to unwind his muscles, unclench his jaw.

"You're not helping." He whispers to her eventually, when he has failed to relax at all, her touch all he can focus on.

She brings her hand back up above the table to grasp her own cup, smiles at him, one eyebrow raised. "Sorry."

Her eyes sparkle; somehow he feels himself settling, steadying under her gaze.

Her knee knocks against his own and he bites back a smirk, takes a bite of his sandwich. Of course she is not sorry at all, his wicked woman.

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><p>Next time: <em>the first pet<em>


	22. how much is that doggy in the window

**A/N: **Thank you all so much, you're reviews were so lovely. I honestly thought I'd already posted this chapter...oops.

Drabble Twenty-Two:_ the first pet  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>_how much is that doggy in the window_<strong>

She never meant to adopt the dog. She likes it well enough, with its sweet temperament and the unconditional loyalty that she rather wishes she could guarantee in her maids - she will not think of Ethel now, not when she can still see the pain in the young girl's face, the horror in the grandfather's - but it was never her intention to let it get this close.

She learnt a long time ago that animals should be useful, you own cows for milk and cheese, pigs for pork. You have horses for transport and chickens for eggs. If you have a cat it is to catch mice and rats, a dog is to herd sheep or for hunting - never something she experienced herself, they were farmers not Gentry; the closest they came was shooting the foxes that went for the chickens.

You did not have pets, did not treat an animal as a friend.

But then the War broke out, the men left the House and Isis wandered into her parlour.

Long after the House had gone to bed, after the ledgers and accounts had been tucked away, when she would sit in the dark, the fireplace not always lit and think of him, the next day's letter already written in her mind, the little stack of his beside her on the table.

Isis had entered, little paws tap-tapping against the stone floors, padded up, sat at her feet and dropped her head into her lap.

She hadn't the heart to send her off back upstairs, found herself thinking of Lady Mary and rubbing her fingers over the dog's ears.

She left her that night, let her jump up on the settee, her door pulled to and not locked. Came down the next morning to find her still there, waiting. Let her out then and watched as she took herself back upstairs for the day. Thought that to be the end of it.

Isis returned that night, the next. Lonely perhaps, with her master gone.

Some nights she would wait for the dog to arrive, others she would leave the door open, take herself up to bed, be unsurprised to find her Sitting Room occupied come morning.

His Lordship returned with that terrible news and Isis still appeared at her door that night and the next.

Has done each night still, she can hardly believe Charles has not noticed until now.

"She should be upstairs."

"She's fine where she is." She strokes her hand over the dog's back, feels it sigh into her lap.

"If His Lordship knew..." Charles grumbles from the door, she looks up from her papers, almost finished for the night.

"He does." She quirks an eyebrow at his shock. "Of course he does, Charles. He noticed right away when his dog disappeared each night. He asked the staff and I told him."

"He didn't mind?" He comes in now, settles in the little space Isis has left beside her. Looks comical folded into the corner.

"I wouldn't say that, no. But he understood." Isis is warm, soft, her steady breathing a calm accompaniment to the quiet evening. They will go to bed soon; she should not be so nervous, not tonight, not when they are married, have already done things, tried things that make her blush. Should the second night not be easier? She thought it would be. "You were gone, Charles. Even His Lordship wasn't about to take away what little comfort I might get from his dog." He had said it was fine, that as long as the dog was not in the way, she could stay wherever she wished, of course, he was glad Elsie had been taking such good care of her while he was away.

"I see."

He does she knows, she smiles, drops the papers on the table and reaches for his face. Traces her thumb across his lip, fingers curling around his jaw. Such a strong jaw. He leans awkwardly over the dog, brings his face close to hers.

"I suppose she can stay." He says in the seconds before their lips can touch.

She kisses him then, lifts up as much as she can with the weight on her legs, presses her mouth to his.

She whispers a '_thank you'_ into his jaw, tastes the strong line she was admiring before. She will let him think he had a say, that she would have ever turned Isis away because he requested it. Knows he never _would_ have asked that of her.

His hands find her waist, her hip, bump up against the dog. Growls; "Let's go up" and tugs at her hand, kisses her neck, behind her ear.

_Yes_, she thinks, as she slips out from under Isis's head and lets him pull her out of the room.

Heart thumping, nerves like frantic butterflies in her stomach she follows him to their rooms, turns the key in the lock. Meets his eye and finds the same nervousness hidden there. She takes a deep breath and pushes open the door.

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><p>Next time: <em>the first massage<em>


	23. slow and steady

**A/N: **Thank you so much to everyone who has stuck by this story, even with these atrocious delays between chapters, your comments and reviews mean the world to me. This is quite a long chapter, so I hope that makes up for it!

Drabble Twenty-Three: _the first massage_

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><p><strong>_slow and steady_<strong>

He knows that he overdid it the day before. Doctor Clarkson had warned him that he might suffer for a few months yet. That he is healed, yes, but these things linger. And he is not a young man, he cannot expect to get himself shot up and recover in an instant.

But he felt nothing so much as a twinge yesterday. Not when he stood for an hour in his pantry, having dressed early and reluctant to sit and crease his suit, not when he stood for the half hour at the alter waiting for her to arrive, and the half hour after with her there beside him, her hand in his. And not when he had lifted her - both times he had lifted her - her weight a comfort in his arms, an assurance that he could be a normal husband, could lift his wife over a threshold as he has always been told he should.

Oh he had felt it in the early hours of the morning, but the bath and her touch, the memories and excitement of the night had made it easy to forget, to dismiss.

Today, while he still feels the wonder of having her as _his_, of the life laid out ahead of them that they'll face together, the pain can no longer be denied. And even as he watches her undress, down already to her corset and shift, standing there in their bedroom looking far more dangerous to his control than any of the scantily clad women who would huddle behind the stage in the theatres; he can only turn his eyes to the bed and imagine lying still, letting his bones settle, his muscles relax.

He does not want to disappoint her, wants her to have every attention a new wife should have; to feel cherished and desired, as she is. His mind, his heart, parts lower than that, they are willing to show her. But his leg, his arm, his mind too, warn him that he will only suffer if he pushes the pain away this time.

No matter how much he wants to lift her up, to drop her across their sheets, to pull off her corset again, to tear the shift from her body. As much as he has dreamt today of taking her to bed and satisfying her again and again; he cannot afford the consequences that may arise; cannot find himself unable to move from pain tomorrow, to let Barrow take over the duties he has only just returned to.

Her hand against his chest makes him jump, look down at her, the concern in her eyes, the bottom lip she bites between her teeth.

"Charles?"

She still has her corset and shift on, a short one that only just covers where he knows the little bows on her knickers rest against her thighs. Her long legs are bare for his eyes to take in, and they do, not helping his situation at all.

The tops of her breasts are bare too, rising and falling as she breathes and it is too much; the scent of her hair touching his nose, memories of last night, this morning rising up. How is he meant to resist her, now that he knows her taste, how she feels wrapped around him; what those private, secret parts of her feel like against his skin?

He gives in; he will face the consequences if he must, will take tomorrow as it comes - she is worth the pain, the shame. Touching her, _loving her_ is worth most anything that could happen.

Her hand brushes down his chest again, fingers slipping over the buttons of his waistcoat and he gathers it up in his own, raises her fingers to his lips and turns her hand, kisses her palm. "How tempting you are, Mrs Carson." He says, decision made.

Her smile is soft - _fond_ - and she blushes as she tangles her fingers with his and tugs.

"Well, you'll just have to resist me, Mr Carson." She pulls him to the bed, turns them so that she can push him gently down on the edge. "If you think I haven't noticed the pain you're in Charles, then you're mistaken."

"Elsie..."

"Charles, it's okay. I'm not going to throw you out just because you need a rest." Her blush is even brighter now, her fingers shake as they work at his buttons. He reaches for her, gathers her close, stalls her progress.

"I want to, Elsie. Don't doubt that."

She sighs above him, he feels it, hears it with his ear against her stomach. "No, I don't think I ever shall, Charles."

He lets her step away a moment later, stays still and watches as she undresses him, gently prods him to slip further back on the bed. He lifts his hips when directed, feels himself blush as the effect she has on him is made evident with his trousers removed.

He is no less affected by her when she flicks off the lights, leaving them with only the dim candle flames, joins him on the bed and straddles his hips, the satin of her knickers tickling the hairs on his thighs. Wonders then if she has changed her mind, he does not think he could resist now, anymore than when he stood fully dressed with her before him.

He meets her eyes and sees nervousness there, different to last night, something else she is unsure of.

"I haven't done this in some time, Charles. You'll have to tell me if I hurt you."

Once upon a time, he thought her predictable. He thought he understood her as well as any man can a woman. He finds almost daily now, that he hardly understands her at all; certainly he cannot predict anything where she is concerned. He has no idea what she has planned now.

She reaches for something on the table beside the bed, rubs it into her hands until they shine, glistening as she strokes her fingers over and over.

She bends forward, her breasts right there, the valley between them visible all the way to the crease of her stomach. It must be uncomfortable in the corset but she makes no complaint and he...he is weak, selfish but he likes her this way; had not realised how much he _could_ like her undressed like this.

She bends forward and while his eyes are drawn to her chest, her hands land against his sides, slide, greasy and slippery, up to his shoulders, fan out and curve around, fingers digging softly into the muscle, skirting over the knot that pains him, before circling around, rubbing deeper, pushing and kneading.

A massage.

She travels lower, to his thigh and the other scars, takes as much care there as she did to his shoulder. He can feel the knots loosen, the pain soften. It is not his mind this time, but her actions.

The scent of the oil is calming, heady, he finds himself settling heavily into the mattress, feeling both light and weighted down at once.

She works her way back to his shoulders, then down again, over and over, a pattern he cannot keep focus on, as he feels the day's, the week's tension leave him.

He wants to ask her where she learnt this, wants to know who she learnt this for. But he can feel his eyelids closing, blocking out the sight of her.

He means to stay awake, to just rest his eyes. Wants to thank her properly, thinks that after this he can, can show his appreciation in any way she wishes.

"Good night, Charles."

He means to stay awake, but with her hands splayed out against his belly, he falls asleep before her words have any meaning.

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><p>Next time: <em>the first secret revealed<em>


	24. no room for secrets

**A/N: You guys, you absolutely lovely people you! Thank you so much for all the comments you have sent my way recently (and of course in the past too). I have story ideas up to my ears right now, and that's all because of you people and your kind, inspiring words. However, poor Elsie and Charles Carson have been neglected this holiday season, and I mean to remedy that. I hope you enjoy this; it's a bit of a filler, but I promise the next drabble will be NSFW again.  
><strong>

Drabble Twenty-Four: _the first secret told_

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><p><strong>_no room for secrets_<strong>

She has read stories, heard hushed conversations that end with laughter, of men who fall asleep on their wives in intimate situations like this.

She does not find anything about it funny, would not tell a soul about this moment, feels it a bigger secret than anything else that has happened between them in this bed.

Charles sleeps, his head turned towards her pillow, his mouth open just a little, eyelids pressed loosely together. He has his pillowcase caught up beneath him and she wonders that he might have creases on his cheek tomorrow, thinks there will never have been a more darling sight to her than to see the little red lines pressed into his skin, to watch him blink sleep from his eyes, his hair a flat mess on one side of his head, a wild tangle on the other.

Her fingers clean now from the oil, she loosens the laces on her corset and slips it off, left in her shift and knickers. She blushes to think of undressing further, of slipping between the sheets with nothing but his own underwear to separate them. She shakes her head at herself even as she slides in beside him, the shift untouched. One day, she knows she will be more familiar with her body; each of his touches make her seem more real, the outside more than just something to carry her through each day. He finds her attractive, she has no doubt of that now; he sees her in a way no other ever has and she is so very glad that it is _him _that does so.

She is careful as she settles, not to disturb him. She has plaited her hair as best she could - still wild from the night before, almost untameable - and it falls across her shoulder when she turns on her side to face him, her knees curling up to press into his thigh.

She has only spent one night with him and yet she knows already that she likes to feel him against her when she sleeps. Feel his presence.

He mumbles as she touches him, she holds still and he turns, hooks his arm over her waist, pulls her close to his chest. Sleeping lips press a sloppy kiss against her cheek, mumble her name as he settles back into the pillow.

Carefully, she adjusts, finds a place for her hands. Tucked up between her chest and his, one flat against his back. The sheets are low on his waist and her hip, but she is warm enough tonight not to worry. Will pull them higher if she needs to in the night.

Her heart beats wildly in her chest as she watches him, his face close enough that she can feel his breath puff against her neck.

She feels as though the world is holding its breath, waiting for something in this moment, wonders if perhaps there are words she should say, but she has said them all and will say them again when he wakes.

He mumbles again, lips pouting as they seek something out.

She brushes his mouth with her finger and he kisses it, sucks it in between his lips and holds it there, the tip just touching his teeth.

Her thumb strokes circles against his cheek.

"There is nothing I wouldn't do for you, Mr Carson. No lie I wouldn't tell, or truth come to that. Ask me anything and I would do it, say it."

"Tell me something." She jerks at his voice, muffled by her finger. She truly had thought him asleep. His eye squints open at her. "Tell me something that no one else knows."

It closes again but she knows he is listening, waiting. There are so many things she could say; she does not open up easily. Does not share her secrets with anyone when it can be helped. She could tell him of the books she used to read as a girl, the ones the church and her Pa had banned. Of the lad who wore torn clothes and whose ribs she could count, that she passed eggs to each Monday, lied that the chickens had laid fewer than the day before. She could tell him of the Butler she worked under before him, who liked to use his hands on the girls, how she understands Thomas because her mind thinks like the lad's when she needs it to. {She left the House when the Butler did, felt no pity for his loss of position.}

But instead she tucks her head into his chest, takes her hand from his back and wraps it around his beneath the covers.

"My Ma died when I was fourteen." She tells him, voice low - a whisper - "Pa wanted me to take over, the farm, the house everything really. But...my childhood was good, it was, but my parents had never been ihappy/i, not together at least."

She stares at his chest blindly, searches for words she never intended to say. "I didn't want that life. I ran away one night. I left a note of course, said that I wouldn't return, not until May had taken over."

He shifts beside her, tightens his hold on her. "But you did go back, before that."

Certain, sure; he believes he knows her so well and in this he does, she supposes. "Yes. Once, before Pa died. But the truth is, I should have stayed; I can't regret my life, Charles." Especially not now, with everything she has. "But I was a coward to leave that way."

His finger at her chin tips her head back until she can see him, blinking down at her in the dark, moonlight through the curtains glittering in his eyes. "You listen here, Elsie Carson. I'll not have anyone calling my wife a coward."

She chuckles, feels things falling loose that have been taut for too long; "Even Me?"

He smiles, closes his eyes again and rests his forehead against her hair. "Especially not you."

Settling in close, her lips against his chest again, she sighs.

"Sleep." He mutters.

Sleep, yes and in the morning she will thank him properly; for loving her, for making her feel brave.

* * *

><p>Next time: <em>the first taste pt. 2<em>


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